


Were it Well

by merelypassingtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-27 06:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12575460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: When moving in with the world's only consulting detective John is concerned he won't be able to keep his secret.Turns out he need not have worried.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks beyond measure to my wonderful beta reader no-reason-at-all for all her hard work and time making my words shine as brightly as they can.

Casting a nervous glance at the darkening sky, John shifted the box he was carrying closer to his body, trying to offset the drag from the heavy duffel bag slung over his back, and crossed the pavement from the cab to the door of 221B quickly.

He had done his best to delay this final move into his new flat until after the full moon, even while knowing it was an exercise in futility. There was no way that the most observant man in the world was going to fail to deduce his secret, probably tonight, and he wasn't sure how Sherlock would react. It seemed most likely that Sherlock would not be able to accept such a far fetched truth and would reject it and with it John himself but it was just as likely that Sherlock would embrace the idea and batter John with a thousand questions and, more worryingly, subject him to untold experimentation. John wasn't sure which one would be worse.

John had hoped to dodge either bullet for a few more weeks, but the ruthless management of his former bedsit had been unwilling to grant him an extra day over his lease. Besides, Sherlock had started giving him curious, calculating looks. At this point he thought not moving in was hurting him more than helping him keep his secret.

So here he stood, fumbling to reach his keys without dropping his box of possessions. Everything else he owned had long since made the transition to Baker Street, leaving him just this box, mostly full of mementos and books from Uni that Harry had returned to him, and one bag full of seldom worn clothes. He was thankful not to have more, but he could still use some help.

Finally managing to get the door open, he took a step in and called up the stairs, “Sherlock! Why is there is a man bleeding to death in our foyer?” Even after only one week acquaintanceship, he knew that Sherlock would never come down if he asked for help, but he would come running for a case.

John waited a minute, the box growing heavier in his arms, but everything remained still and quiet. Puzzled, he tried again, “Sherlock! Did you hear me? This guy is bleeding everywhere and he keeps whispering your name and something about a lion's mane? Mean anything to you?”

Only silence answered him. He sighed in resignation and began to climb. Although his limp was gone the leg was still weak from months of being favored, and he was grateful to reach the sitting room. Putting both box and bag down, he looked around, fully expecting to find Sherlock lounging on the couch, lost in his mind palace, or hunched over his microscope and ignoring the world, but the flat seemed empty.

“Sherlock?” he asked the deserted room. “You home? Death! Dismemberment! Embarrassing pictures of your brother eating cake? No? Guess you aren't here.” He tried to keep the relief out of his voice in case Sherlock sprang out of a closet for some mad reason, but the silence remained unbroken.

John looked down at his burdens, then out at the twilight. He had cut it close, and now he had to decide if he had time to finish carrying them up to his room. The streetlights flickered to life as he looked out, making up his mind. Leaving the box and bag where they lay, he turned and rushed up the last flight of stairs, already unbuttoning his shirt on the way. When he reached his small room he shut the door firmly behind him and engaged the security chain he had installed against his marauding flatmate. He shed the rest of his clothes, folding all of them neatly on the bed except the shirt which he left rumpled on the floor for later.

He sat in the middle of the floor, naked, and waited for the change to start.

+++

The next morning, he came downstairs to find the flat still devoid of detectives, his stuff still sitting unmolested in the middle of the floor. The beginnings of worry took root in his heart but he tamped them down. Sherlock was a grown man and could take care of himself. Mostly. Sometimes. Maybe.

By the time he finished moving in the last of his stuff and had his morning tea and toast, he was concerned enough to consider calling the number for Mycroft that had appeared mysteriously on his phone.

He was relieved when the front door slammed open and Sherlock's unmistakable voice bellowed, “John!”

“What?” he demanded just as loudly, trying to sound annoyed. He would have yelled a bit more, but he could hear Sherlock bounding up the stairs, and when he appeared in the kitchen doorway John was too stunned to speak. Sherlock was wearing neon pink tights two sizes too small, a white vest with the word, “RELAX” printed on it in bold black letters, and nothing else. The tights left no doubt about that.

“John!” Sherlock repeated. “I think I found a lead on that missing school teacher, we have to go before they move her again.”

“No, absolutely not.”

“But John—”

“I said no. It is bloody February and you’re not even wearing shoes, Sherlock. You are going to go get some shoes and at least your coat on; then we’ll go.”

Sherlock narrowed eyes at him and huffed in annoyance, but he also started down the hall towards his bedroom. “Fine, five minutes. But you had best get your shoes on as well.”

John watched him flounce away and smiled to himself. His secret was safe for another month at least.

+++

When the next full moon found Sherlock out of the country on some highly classified mission for Mycroft, John could hardly believe his luck. The month after that, he was able to use one of his sister's stints in rehab as an excuse to be away from town himself.

And so it went; every month something came up keeping one or the other of them out of the flat for the night. By October John was beginning to hope that it would continue like this indefinitely and his little secret would remain safe. Of course it didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening began normally enough, with Sherlock absorbed in an old case and John reading in his chair. When the take-away arrived, John laid it out on the kitchen table in front of where Sherlock was typing something about the tensile strength of various types of animal hair into a spreadsheet. John sat opposite him and opened the cartons of curry without any real hope that Sherlock would eat any with him. 

Deftly wielding his chopsticks, he popped a morsel of curried chicken into his mouth, then frowned at the taste. He took another piece and found it was just as off as the first bite. Puzzled, he tried a different container and found it had the same taste. A few more bites confirmed that all the food had the same distinct flavor.

“God, this is salty today.” he said to himself, holding another piece of his curry aloft and trying to decide if it was still edible. Before he could raise the chicken any farther Sherlock's hand shot out, seizing his hand firmly and making him drop the bite. 

Startled, John began, “Wha—” but Sherlock cut him off.

“Salty, you say?” he asked. When John nodded, Sherlock made a “hmm” noise and released his hand only to take the chopsticks from him. He dipped into the carton nearest him and took a piece from it for himself. He chewed it slowly, his face a mask of concentration, then concluded, “Yes, this is definitely drugged.”

“Drugged?!” 

“Yup. Gamma-Hydroxybutyic acid. Colorless and odorless, but with a noticeable salty taste.” John watched in horror as Sherlock took another bite. “Usually it is not this easy to identify, but they’ve clearly used far too much. I am actually surprised you are still so coherent. Or at least as coherent as you usually are.”

John tried to say, “Shut up, wanker,” but it came out slurred, as if his awareness of the drug’s presence had triggered its effects. He shook his head and blinked hard in an effort to clear some of the haze curling around his thoughts and forced out, “Call Mycroft. Now.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but to John's relief he reached into his jacket pocket. That is when the room seemed to suddenly fill with people in black combat gear. Before he could react, a terrible pain shot through his body and everything went black.

Images floated through his mind, disconnected and disjointed. The sensation of being carried, the darkness in the boot of a car, Sherlock yelling something as a door closed, then warmth and the smell of home as everything faded into blackness. 

 

When John slowly awoke it was to find himself staring at a blank, grey cinder block wall with his throbbing head resting on something comfortable. He groaned and moved to sit up, feeling the suit jacket that had been covering him fall off his shoulders. 

The movement was a mistake and his stomach turned in protest. He pressed the heels of both hands hard against his eyes and told himself he was not going to vomit. Seconds later he was crawling on hands and knees towards the corner of the room, barely making it before he was violently sick.

“Nausea and memory loss are the most common side effects of gamma-Hydroxybutyic acid,” Sherlock said from behind him. John started to look, but another round of heaves overtook him. “I envy you the memory loss; the last ten hours have been tiresome.”

John groaned, “God, my whole body aches.”

“That would be from the taser gun. Luckily, the relaxing effects of the drug in our systems seems to have kept both of us from losing bladder control as is common during high voltage taserings. That or the gun was not at as high a voltage as I thought. They weren't very forthcoming in answering my questions about it.”

“I can't imagine why,” John said, wishing he could remember the conversion. “But if you are planning any experiments to try and replicate our lack of pants wetting, count me out.”

“Next time Mycroft stops by, I plan to drug his tea and taser him.”

“Oh, well that’s fine.” John shrugged. His head was still thrumming unpleasantly, but his stomach felt settled for the moment, so he sat back on the cold cement floor. A pale hand appeared in his peripheral vision, holding out a bottle of water. 

He looked up at Sherlock, meaning to thank him, but was stopped by the sight of the massive bruise spreading over the left side of his face. A fragment of memory swam in front of his eyes: Sherlock standing over him, then being knocked to the ground, and a black gloved hand twining in long brown curls to slam Sherlock's head against ground repeatedly. John felt his fists clench, murder in his heart for whoever that black gloved hand had belonged to.

Sherlock, no doubt reading his mind as clearly as he always did, gave him a little wry smile. Purposefully misinterpreting John's look of rage, he said, “No, don't worry. This water’s not drugged at all, I checked.”

Taking a steadying breath, John nodded. “Ta,” he said reaching for the bottle. After rinsing out his mouth he asked, “So, any idea where we are and who took us?”

Rolling his eyes in his 'so obvious' look, Sherlock said, “Well, I may have angered a group of Ukrainian businessmen when I exposed their arms smuggling.”

“Uh-huh, and when was this?”

“Yesterday, when you were at work.”

“You caught a gang of international arms dealers while I was at work?”

“Well, I was bored.”

“You're incredible, is what you are.”

This time Sherlock's smile was a bit shy, even as he waved the compliment away with a haughty, “Meretricious.”

“Still, you could have warned me.” Sherlock just shrugged, so John continued, “What do they plan to do to us?”

“I have no idea, but I think it might be best if we are not here to find out.”

“Can't argue with you there. Any idea where we are?”

“John, they drugged me, shocked me, shut me up in a boot and drove around for hours, then dragged us through an underground car park and down to this godforsaken little room. How could you possibly expect me to know?”

John raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock grinned and answered the unspoken challenge, “Nine Elms, under one of those new luxury apartment buildings next to the river.”

Grinning back, John said, “Good, close to home then. All we have to do is get out of this room.”

“That might be easier said than done.”

Looking around at the room, John noted the solid walls, lack of windows, and massive metal door without a hint of a doorknob or a hinge. He had to agree that escape didn't seem likely.

For hours they examined every wall and rivet in the door but to no avail. There was not so much as hairline crack anywhere to be found, and even Sherlock could not think his way through two feet of cement.

When a lunch of soggy cheese sandwiches and two more bottles of water was pushed through the small flap cut into the bottom of the door, it was Sherlock who had to insist they stop and eat. “Come on, your body is still trying to process out the drugs. You need to eat.”

John could see his point; he was tired, and the headache that had been fading was now back full force. Still, he needed to find a way out now, before moonrise. Not that he could tell that to Sherlock.

“John, there is nothing we can do for now. Rest, eat. Maybe they'll open the door to check on us soon and we can try something then.”

Sighing, John did sit down next to Sherlock and the door. As they ate in silence, listening for any movement in the hall outside the door, John tried to decide if he should try to warn Sherlock, try to explain while he still could. Before he could decide, time and the rise of the moon took the choice out of his hands.

He felt the clench deep in his gut as the change started, and he doubled over, curling into a tight ball. Distantly he heard Sherlock's voice, full of concern, calling his name, but now the sensation of liquid fire was pulsing through his veins and he could feel his shape drawing in on itself, bones realigning and muscles pulling tight. Only years of practice stopped him from screaming as his back lit with pain and millions of thick, keratin-rich hairs pushed their way out of his skin.

It took only a minute for the transformation to finish, but it always seemed like an eternity, and after it was done John just lay limply underneath his clothes and recovered.

When he felt up to movement, he flattened his quills and crawled out from inside his now far too large jumper. As soon as he was free, he looked over to where Sherlock had been sitting, expecting to see him staring in horror or fascination down at John's new hedgehog form. What he saw instead was another loose pile of clothes lying next to his, and out of the purple shirt poked the sleek-furred head of an otter.


	3. Chapter 3

For several seconds nothing happened; John looked at the otter, and the otter looked back at him.

The otter blinked and cocked its head to one side.

John shook out of his paralysis to shout, “You utter bastard!” It came out as a series of angry chattering noises, but John felt like they still got his point across.

The otter--Sherlock--ignored John and finished wriggling out of his clothes, then spent far longer than necessary stretching and smoothing his fur into place. Just when John was beginning to consider whether a bite might capture Sherlock’s attention, Sherlock finished his intensive personal grooming. He stood on his hind legs and shrugged his shoulders in a motion that John interpreted as, “Well, how was I to know you were a were-creature, too?”

John narrowed his eyes back and chittered, “You know everything! You could have saved me months of worry.”

Pressing one paw over his heart, Sherlock solemnly shook his head. His dark, liquid eyes were full of innocence, clearly conveying, “No, I promise I didn't know.”

Much to his annoyance, John found that he couldn't stay mad at that adorable otter face no matter how feigned the innocence likely was. Not that he had ever been good at staying mad with Sherlock in the first place.

He made a halfhearted grumbling noise he hoped told the perceptive detective that the conversation about this was far from over and that he still had several choice words to share just as soon as he could say words again. Then he cast a pointed gaze around the room, asking as best he could, “Okay, so what now, genius?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw up his paws, and John could almost hear the detective saying, “Obvious!” If he had lips he would have had to hide a smile as he gamely trotted after the lithe form now making its way towards the door of their little prison.

When Sherlock got to the battered metal surface, he went directly to the flap their meals had been pushed through. Hooking his claws under it, he pulled up with what looked like a great deal of effort. The nod Sherlock gave towards the opening was unnecessary, and John ignored the directive. It didn’t take the world's only consulting detective to see that there was no way Sherlock could lift the heavy flap and wriggle underneath it at the same.

So, instead of heading for the flap, John moved back towards his discarded clothes. Behind him he heard the flap click closed as Sherlock came to help him. Together they extracted a shoe from the pile and pushed it in front of the door, ready to wedge it open.

Unfortunately, once Sherlock had again lifted the flap the shoe proved to be too heavy for John to move alone. He pushed with all his might, but his tiny paws scrabbled uselessly for purchase on the smooth concrete floor. Not for the first time, and he doubted for the last, he cursed the curse that made him such a small, helpless creature. He looked resentfully at the shoe, thought about turning it on its side so it would slide better, then gave up the idea entirely.

He scurried forward to slip underneath the gap himself, but rather than pass all the way through he stopped when he felt the edge was near the middle of his back, bracing his feet squarely and waiting. There was a moment of hesitation, then he felt the pressure increase as Sherlock slowly released the flap. It was heavier than he expected, and John had a fleeting moment to appreciate how strong otters were before he had to grit his teeth and focus on keeping his knees locked in place as the full weight came to bear.

As soon as he released the flap entirely, Sherlock was quick to worm his way under, his greater bulk taking the weight off John for a few seconds before he was through. When John was sure that even Sherlock's long tail was well clear he carefully took a step forward. That was all it took for the flap to move over the peak of his back and, in accordance with the laws of physics but much to John's dismay, it slid down the slope of his backside with enough speed and pressure to knock his paws out from under him and propel him forward a few inches into the hall in an undignified tumble.

He sprawled there, the wind knocked out of him and full of embarrassment. He looked over, sure he would find Sherlock doing whatever the otter equivalent of pointing and laughing is, but found instead that the otter was not looking his way at all but examining the hall they were now in.

Grateful for the unexpected consideration, John took a moment to catch his breath and to ruffle and resettle his quills before he joined Sherlock where he was reading a sign on the wall. John didn't bother to look up at the sign for himself, knowing from years of experience that his hedgehog eyesight would not be up to the task, especially in the bright fluorescent light.

Whatever he read must have pleased him, because as soon as John reached his side Sherlock was off down the hallway to the left, moving with a speed and fluid grace that John could only envy as he trundled along behind him. Soon the detective was out of sight around a corner, still moving too fast for John's shorter legs to match. He sighed, and then used the inhale to pick out the familiar scent of Sherlock, now made only more distinct with the additional smell of fur. His eyesight might be piss-poor and his legs might be short and slow, but his nose was excellent. He followed it around two more corners and down a long hallway through what appeared to be a warren of underground storage units until he reached a pair of lifts.

The door to the left one stood open, and John moved to it, hopping over the gap and into the waiting car. Sherlock was stretched up the wall, holding down the 'Open Doors' button with his nose and looking perturbed. John snorted at the sight, wishing he had taken longer to get there. At the small noise Sherlock tossed back his head at if to say, “About time,” and released the button. The doors slid shut as Sherlock reach up for the next row of buttons, barely managing to hit the one labeled 'P1.'

It was only when the lift began moving up that John recognized the song playing through the tinny speakers as 'Bad Moon Rising.' He couldn't help the half choked noise he made as he tried to laugh with a body never meant to laugh.

Sherlock rushed over to him, looking concerned, and for some reason that too struck John as funny. He laughed harder, curling up into a ball and shaking while Sherlock hovered uncertainly over him.

The lift dinged and the doors opened, breaking through John's mirth enough for him to uncurl and start walking, though he did continue to wheeze alarmingly as they made their way out of the lift and into the car park.

It was lucky the wheezing was relatively quiet, or they might not have heard the footsteps and harsh Slavic voices approaching.


	4. Chapter 4

John felt the laughter die in his throat as the lamentable instincts of small rodents the world over took hold. He froze where he stood, heart pounding, eyes wide as he tried to better pinpoint the direction the voices were coming from in the echo-ridden car park.

As always, Sherlock was not so slow to react. He scooped John up gingerly with his front paws and carried him towards a nearby rubbish bin, moving in a quick, if awkward, waddle on his hind legs. After the initial surprise of being lifted, John focused on keeping his quills flat and not wriggling even while he told the detective in muted clicking noises and grumbles that he had four perfectly good feet and didn't need to be carried, thank you very much.

Sherlock ignored him again, continuing on until they were behind the rubbish bins. John was getting tired of being ignored, but he had to admit that this time Sherlock might have had the right of it. Sherlock had hardly had a chance to put him down before the footsteps came to a stop only feet away, in front of the lifts.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was back down on all fours, his head pointed towards the men attentively, clearly straining to hear their conversation. His heart went tight, over full of affection for the ottery arsehole, because of course Sherlock could speak their language. Doubtless he was even now getting enough information to lock away more of this gang. Suddenly the number of cases they cracked the day after the full moon made much more sense as John thought about all the places a nimble otter could get into that a man couldn't.

It was a thought he tucked away for later, because something about those voices was niggling at the back of his mind. They sounded familiar. Then he caught a word in the middle of the stream of liquid syllables and he remembered that same word or one very like it being repeated by that same voice as its owner banged Sherlock's head against the ground over and over.

White hot rage flared in his veins, and before he knew what he was doing and well before Sherlock could move to stop him, John was stomping out from behind the bins and towards the voice.

He approached them more boldly than any sane hedgehog would, stopping only a few feet away. He took a breath, braced himself, and issued a ringing challenge to the men in front of him. As they turned towards him he took all of the anger singing throughout his body and focused it into looking as adorable and nonthreatening as possible.

He knew that he was small for a hedgehog, and his body was a very light tan color rather than the more common brown. Usually it was annoying to look so cute, but now he used it to his advantage. With his quills pulled flat, he widened his eyes and tilted his head just a bit to one side, chittering in a bewildered way and taking an apparently hesitant step towards the two men.

It worked like a charm. The voices stopped for a second, then exchanged a few brief phrases before John hear one of them take a step closer, still taking, this time in low soothing tones. John couldn't be sure it was the same voice that had smashed Sherlock to the ground, but at this point that hardly mattered: the die was cast.

A set of fingers was placed in front of his nose, and he had to resist the urge to bite. Instead he pretended to sniff them while he continued to look harmless. He was betting the man would be stupid enough to press his luck. Sure enough, after a few more seconds the man grew more bold and attempted to picked him up. As soon as he felt the hand close around him John bristled all his spikes out and buried his needle sharp teeth into the pad of the man's thumb with all the force of his anger.

Reflexively the man's hand tightened around John, squeezing him hard enough that for a split second he worried about his ribs shattering. It only took that second for his quills to do their job, ripping dozens of holes in the man's hand and making him release his grip along with a string of curses. He then tried shaking John off, but John had been prepared for that. He bit down harder and hung on as the man flailed his hand around, every swing tearing deeper into the man's thumb.

The next several seconds were a blur as the man hopped around with surprising agility for a man his size and screamed in Ukrainian while John hissed and growled around his mouthful of thumb. In a corner of his mind John found himself hoping that the security video would end up online so he could appreciate it later.

He felt his jaw beginning to weaken from the abuse so on the next outward swing he let go. For a glorious moment he was flying through the air. He pulled his body into a tight ball, bracing for impact and praying that he wasn't about to meet an embarrassing end dashed against a car park wall. He hit the ground with enough force to make his already abused ribcage scream and rolled for what felt like forever to his concussed head until he bumped into something solid and stopped.

He uncurled and for a moment he allowed himself to sprawl on his back, half stunned, dizzy and aching. The sound of an angry voice moving closer prodded him back into movement. He flipped awkwardly onto his legs and scrambled behind the tyre that had halted his roll. He huddled low to the ground, his eyes closed against the waves of dizziness, and listened as the voices, one angry and the other laughing, moved towards and then by the car he was hiding underneath. Minutes passed, and John kept his eyes closed until he heard the men pass by again, heading back towards the lift. In the distance he heard the ding of a lift arriving, and the voices were cut off in mid-word as the lift's doors closed. John heaved a sigh of relief that turned into a squeak of surprise as he opened his eyes only to be confronted by a very annoyed otter inches from his nose.

Sherlock huffed at him, then reached a paw out to one of John's quills. When he pulled the paw back it it had blood on it. Bringing the blood up to his nose, he sniffed at it before giving John a sharp, questioning look.

John shook his head no, the blood wasn't his.

Tension visibly melted out of Sherlock's shoulders though his face didn't change from its expression of disapproval. He tilted his head down slightly, looking at John down his short snout, clearly demanding to know what the hell John had been thinking.

He did his best to shrug, meaning to say, “It was worth it.” Then he narrowed his eyes and hissed, thinking, “They deserved that and so much more and as soon as I have opposable thumbs again I plan to use them and a tyre lever to teach those men never to hurt you again.”

Sherlock tossed his back and to one side in a theatrical eye roll that ended with a disparaging headshake. He was still shaking his head as he trotted towards the boot of the car and paused, stopping only to throw a look back over his shoulder that asked, “Well, are you coming?”

John grinned internally and followed the bobbing figure out of the car park.


	5. Chapter 5

Honestly, John hadn't thought too much about what they would do after they escaped from the building. As humans they would have been a relatively short cab ride from home, and maybe an otter could make it before sunrise, he wasn't well versed in otter capabilities, but he knew for sure that he wouldn't make it. Left to his own devices he would have found a nice bush to hide under and slept until morning when he would be human again. It would have meant having to deal with another ASBO, this time for public nudity, but it was still better than being stuck back in that cell.

Sherlock of course had other plans, and as John stood on the bank of the Thames watching Sherlock splash into the murky water he thought as loudly as he could, “You can't be serious.”

When Sherlock, now floating on his back, looked over at him and waved a paw in a come-hither motion, John just shook his head no. While he admitted that in his whole life as an occasional hedgehog John had never tried swimming and therefore might be able to do it, the middle of a cold fall night in the Thames wasn't a great place to start.

Sherlock shot him an annoyed glare, then meaningfully patted his chest where it floated well clear of the water and beckoned to him again.

John curled in on himself enough so he could pinch the bridge of his snout with a paw and sighed, but he started towards the river.

Sherlock moved so he was floating perpendicular to the edge of the river, anchored in place by his thick tail. John dutifully walked over the tail and onto Sherlock's chest, stopping only an inch or so from his head. He was surprised to find the whole maneuver barely even got his paws damp. Sherlock's fur repelled the water better than most raincoats, and it was amazingly warm and dense. He easily hooked his claws into it without coming close to scratching skin and huddled down. When Sherlock looked a question at him John nodded back and with a flick of his tail and a kick of his back legs Sherlock started padding them downriver.

For the first several minutes John kept his head down, concentrating on keeping a firm grip so he wouldn't have to find out just how well he could float. As time passed, Sherlock remained admirably steady with only an occasional gentle rocking movement as he steered them with his feet, so John finally started looking around.

It was a lovely view from the water, the lights of London reflecting off the water like the flicker of a thousand candles. To their left along the riverbank, spotlights lit the House of Parliament, and Big Ben shone like a torch against the night sky. The full moon was poised above it, huge and glowing an unnatural orange through the city's pollution. John craned his head to get a better view even as they floated beneath a bridge that blocked the sight entirely.

When they emerged from the other side he turned again to take in the view just as the wake from a passing tour boat hit them. They bobbed wildly in the water and almost capsized. John, squeaking in alarm, hooked his claws back into Sherlock's fur in an attempt to stay on top of the rocking otter even as Sherlock grabbed him with both claws to steady him until the wake passed and they righted, floating steadily once more.

Expecting Sherlock to let him go now that the turbulence had passed, John instead felt his paw move to the side of John's face in what could only be called a caress. Time slowed to a crawl and everything around them faded away as John watched the lights of the London Eye reflected in Sherlock's dark eyes. Louis Armstrong's gravelly voice floated across the water from the passing tour boat singing about how it was a wonderful world and suddenly it was impossible for John not to lean forward and press his small, pink nose up against the broad brown one of his flatmate, friend, and hopefully so much more.

For a moment as he pulled back all he could see was surprise in those wide otter eyes, but they quickly softened, and the paw on his cheek stroked back to circle the base of his ear as Sherlock leaned up out of the water to press their noses back together. Time froze entirely.

The harsh flash of a camera broke the spell, and the sights and sounds snapped back into John's awareness. He glanced over at the source of the flash and found dozens of tourist crowding the rail of their boat watching and filming him and Sherlock as they passed. John squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment, knowing he would be blushing if he could.

Looked back at Sherlock, he found the detective was clearly not embarrassed in the slightest, and actually was radiating self-satisfaction and joy. The bastard actually winked at him before leaning up for another lingering bump of noses. The promise of 'Later' hung tangibly in the air between them as they pulled apart.

Sherlock heaved a sigh that sounded like regret as he took his paw away from John's face, moving it to once again brace him in place as Sherlock began swimming purposely towards the opposite bank.

Getting out of the river turned out to be far more of a hassle than getting into it. A pedestrian walkway ran a couple of feet up from the waterline all along the bank of the river, too high for Sherlock to scale, let alone for him to boost John up and over.

They finally found a pier with a concrete footing low enough to scramble onto, then Sherlock was able to lift John up to the deserted pier. From there they made their way across the embankment in a series of quick dashes from cover to cover, or at least as quick as John could dash.

It took several minutes for him to cover even the short distance between the water and the nearest building, including several close calls as they crossed the street that ran parallel to the river. As they crouched behind one of the large pillars that made up the building's facade, John caught his breath and mentally swore at all the drivers of London and their willful ignorance of the small rodents who had to share their roads.

After he had recovered, he looked over to Sherlock expectantly, asking with his posture, “Well, what now?”

After everything that had happened that night, finding out his flatmate was a shape-shifter, attacking a man a hundred times his own size, and basically kissing said flatmate in the middle of the Thames, John would have thought there was nothing left that could shock him. When Sherlock gestured casually at the entrance to the Westminster Tube Station he knew he had been wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

Fortunately, the tube was nearly deserted, and they were able to take the elevator all the way down to the Jubilee Line without being seen. Of course once they were on the train there was nowhere to hide. Fortune favored them again though, and the only people in their car were a pair of giggle-prone twenty-somethings who were content to coo and snap pictures of them. John hoped with all his heart that they wouldn't go viral, Harry would never let him live it down.

The ride was short, and they were at the Baker Street station before the gigglers could get up the nerve to approach them. Still, it was by unspoken agreement that they waited until the very last second to dash out the closing tube door so they couldn't be followed. Sherlock once again picked him up to help him over the gap, and while John recognized the sense in that, it still hurt his pride a bit. That feeling only grew when he had to be lifted up the station's stairs.

John was grateful that he had gotten in the attack on the guard earlier if only because the rest of the night was proving to be terrible for his ego. He wondered idly if they could get a harness for Sherlock so John could ride on his back, but he sort of doubted the otter would ever consent to wearing such a thing. It would have made getting up the stairs a hell of a lot easier, not to mention how much faster it would have made crossing the last block between the station and home.

Still, it was worth the stress, pain, and indignities when he stopped in front of the familiar black door of home. He let out a sigh of relief. Then he thought about the door. It crossed his mind that even if their abductors had been kind enough to grab his house keys as they were dragging his semi-conscious self out earlier, he certainly didn't have any pockets for them to be in right now, nor did he have any hope of reaching the door handle. His second sigh was long-suffering.

He looked around for Sherlock, hoping the long git could ring the doorbell to 221A and wake Mrs Hudson to let them in. It would probably mean a round of awkward explanations in the morning, but John was ready to live with that to just be safe and home. Sherlock hadn't stopped at the doorway though, and now John just caught a glimpse of him as he went around the corner into the nearby alley, a darker shape moving against the dark pavement. John did not sigh for a third time because he wasn't the overly dramatic one. He might have rolled his eyes just a bit as he started after the otter, but, since there was no one there to see, it didn't count.

When he got to the alley himself, he found Sherlock next to Mrs Hudson's kitchen door. As soon as he saw John, Sherlock pushed easily through a dog door that John had never before noticed. John had considerably more trouble getting through the door, having to struggle over the couple of inches between the ground and the bottom of the dog door. He ended up not so much stepping into the kitchen as falling on his snout into it.

Sherlock didn't even look up from the bowl of water on the floor near the sink that he was drinking greedily from. Seeing it John realized how thirsty he was too and joined Sherlock at the bowl. He chose a spot at the dish right next to the otter, making sure to bump into him just for the joy of touching him. Sherlock must not have minded as after he was done drinking he stayed close too, his active tail thumping a steady rhythm against John as Sherlock sat up on his hunches to groom his wet whiskers.

John wondered if Mrs Hudson had recently gotten a dog that John didn't know about, but decided it was more likely that she just knew about Sherlock's dual nature and did all this to take care of him. He was surprised and a bit disappointed that she hadn't left him out a plate of biscuits too.

When he was finished drinking, he did a bit of stretching and grooming himself. Now that they were safely under their own roof, even if not quite in their own flat, the adrenalin was draining out of his system. He could feel every bump and bruise from the fight with the guard and all the muscles he had strained running after Sherlock and dodging cars and other Londoners' notice.

Taking the few steps towards Sherlock, John leaned against him, settling his nose into Sherlock's soft belly fur and allowing his head to hang wearily. Sherlock lean back into him, reaching a paw down to card through John's quills. They stayed like that for several peaceful moments until Sherlock pulled away to drop back down to all four paws. He pressed his wet nose briefly to John's forehead before he turned to flow into the sitting room. Of course, John followed him.

It was with resignation that he looked at the closed door from the living room into the foyer and thought about how they could probably push a chair over to the door and get it open. Then there would be the stairs up to their flat and the possibility their door would be closed too. He just felt too tired to have to deal with all of that yet tonight.

Sherlock seemed to agree. He clawed his way onto the couch and dragged an afghan off the back and onto the floor, where he settled on top of it and looked expectantly at John. John was more than happy to nestle into the soft fabric and curl into a loose ball. The warm length of Sherlock cuddled up behind him, wrapping around his whole body probably tighter than was wise around someone with quills, but John couldn't be arsed to care right now.

He drifted off to sleep, comfortable and completely content.

 

_Epilogue_

It was shortly before dawn when the brown and tan tabby pushed through the cat door. She took a couple of steps into the warm kitchen, then paused and sniffed the air. There was one scent she knew and another that she didn't, though it wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Curious, she followed her nose into the sitting room and to the two animals sleeping together on the floor.

Seeing how protectively the otter was curled around the smaller figure, it wasn't hard for her to guess who the hedgehog was. Purring loudly, she made her way to the bedroom.

Several minutes later when Mrs Hudson emerged she was still smiling. She beamed down at the two naked men still asleep on her floor. They hadn't even stirred during the change back, the poor tired dears. She threw another blanket across them, covering their more delicate bits, and went to make a pot of tea and some breakfast for the three of them.

She could hardly wait to tell Mrs Turner.


End file.
